The dark eastern horizon was giving way to a
lengthening flux of light. A cab drove up to the door, and a man and a
woman got out. It was Mrs. Moore and old Mitchell. Mrs. Moore reached
her brother first, and tenderly clasped his hands. As well as he could
he explained the situation.
"Hilda telephoned me," Mrs. Moore went on, in a low, matter-of-fact
tone. "She was almost in hysterics, and I could not understand her
fully. I thought the operation was to be done there, and so I dressed
and went in a cab. Then I found that Mr. Mitchell wanted to come, and
so I brought him on."
The old man tottered forward. For once he had no comment to make. He
passed them, slowly ascended the steps, went into the waiting-room and
sat down, leaning forward on his stout cane, which he held upright
between his knees.
"We'd have got here sooner, but he stopped at the telegraph-office.
Dick, he has sent a telegram to Irene in care of the Hardys. I saw by
that that he didn't suspect the truth. I tried to think of some way to
prevent it, but couldn't. I told him I was in a hurry, but he would
stop. Now I suppose the truth will have to come out."
"It makes no difference," Mostyn answered. "It might as well come now
as later."
They went in and took their seats against the wall in the waiting-
room.
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